PART 2 // chapter 6-8

[모나리자]

"여자가 익사하고 있어요! 여자가 ​​익사하고 있어요!" 수십 명의 사람들이 소리쳤다. 사람들이 달려왔고, 두 강둑은 구경꾼들로 붐볐고, 다리 위에서는 사람들이 라스콜니코프 주변에 몰려들어 그의 뒤로 밀려났다. "자비를 베푸소서! 우리 아프로시냐예요!" 가까이서 한 여자가 눈물을 흘리며 외쳤다. "자비를 베푸소서! 그녀를 구해 주세요! 친절한 사람들이여, 그녀를 끌어내세요!" "배, 배"가 군중 속에서 외쳤다. 하지만 배는 필요 없었다. 경찰관이 계단을 내려가 운하로 내려가서 큰 코트와 부츠를 벗어던지고 물속으로 뛰어들었다.

그녀에게 다가가는 것은 쉬웠다. 그녀는 계단에서 몇 야드 떨어진 곳에 떠 있었고, 그는 오른손으로 그녀의 옷을 붙잡고 왼손으로 동료가 그에게 내민 막대기를 잡았다. 익사하는 여자는 즉시 끌어올려졌다. 그들은 그녀를 제방의 화강암 포장도로에 눕혔다. 그녀는 곧 의식을 회복하고 고개를 들고 일어나서 재채기와 기침을 하며 어리석게 젖은 드레스를 손으로 닦았다. 그녀는 아무 말도 하지 않았다. "그녀는 술에 취해 정신을 잃었어요." 같은 여자의 목소리가 그녀 옆에서 울부짖었다. "정신을 잃었어요. 얼마 전 그녀가 목을 매달려고 했을 때, 우리가 그녀를 베어버렸어요. 방금 가게로 달려갔어요. 제 어린 딸아이를 맡겨두고—그리고 그녀가 또 곤경에 처했어요! 이웃, 신사, 이웃, 우리는 가까이 살고 있어요. 끝에서 두 번째 집이에요. 저기 보세요..." 군중이 흩어졌다. 경찰은 여전히 ​​그 여자 주변에 머물렀고, 누군가 경찰서를 언급했다.... 라스콜니코프는 이상하게도 무관심과 무관심한 느낌으로 바라보았다. 그는 혐오감을 느꼈다.

"아니, 역겨워... 물... 충분하지 않아." 그는 중얼거렸다. "아무 일도 없을 거야." 그는 덧붙였다. "기다려도 소용없어. 경찰서에 대해서는 어때...? 그리고 자메토프는 왜 경찰서에 없지? 경찰서가 10시까지 열려 있어요..." 그는 난간에 등을 돌리고 주변을 둘러보았다. "그럼 좋아요!" 그는 단호하게 말했다. 그는 다리에서 나와 경찰서 방향으로 걸어갔다. 그의 마음은 공허하고 텅 비어 있었다. 그는 생각하고 싶지 않았다. 그의 우울증조차 지나갔고, "모든 것을 끝내려고" 나섰던 그의 에너지는 이제 흔적도 없었다. 완전한 무관심이 그를 대신했다.

"음, 벗어날 방법이야." 그는 생각하며 운하 제방을 따라 느리고 무기력하게 걸었다. "어쨌든 끝을 낼 거야, 왜냐하면 나는... 하지만 벗어날 방법일까? 뭐가 중요해! 1제곱 야드의 공간이 있을 거야—하! 하지만 얼마나

끝인가! 정말 끝일까? 그들에게 말할까 말까? 아... 젠장! 얼마나 피곤한지! 앉거나 누울 곳을 빨리 찾을 수만 있다면! 내가 가장 부끄러운 건 그것이 너무 멍청하다는 거야. 하지만 그것도 상관없어! 머릿속에 떠오르는 어리석은 생각들.

” 경찰서에 도착하려면 직진해서 두 번째 좌회전을 해야 했다. 불과 몇 걸음 떨어져 있었다. 하지만 첫 번째 우회전에서 그는 멈추고, 잠시 생각한 후, 옆길로 들어와 두 블록을 비켜갔다. 아마도 아무런 목적 없이, 아니면 1분을 늦추고 시간을 벌기 위해서였을 것이다. 그는 땅을 바라보며 걸었다. 갑자기 누군가가 그의 귀에 속삭이는 듯했다. 그는 고개를 들어 집 문 바로 앞에 서 있는 것을 보았다. 그는 그 문을 지나가지 않았고, 그날 저녁 이후로 그 근처에도 가지 않았다. 압도적이고 설명할 수 없는 충동이 그를 끌어들였다. 그는 집으로 들어가 관문을 지나 오른쪽 첫 번째 입구로 들어간 다음, 익숙한 계단을 타고 4층으로 올라가기 시작했다.

좁고 가파른 계단은 매우 어두웠다. 그는 각 계단참에서 멈추고 호기심에 찬 눈으로 주변을 둘러보았다. 첫 번째 계단참에서 창문 틀이 벗겨져 있었다. “그때는 그렇지 않았구나.” 그는 생각했다. 여기가 니콜라이와 드미트리가 일하던 2층 아파트입니다. "폐쇄되었고 문도 새로 칠해졌습니다. 그러니 임대할 수 있는 거죠." 그다음 3층과 4층입니다.

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“A woman drowning! A woman drowning!” shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him. “Mercy on it! it’s our Afrosinya!” a woman cried tearfully close by. “Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!” “A boat, a boat” was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his great coat and his boots and rushed into the water.

It was easy to reach her: she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing. “She’s drunk herself out of her senses,” the same woman’s voice wailed at her side. “Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look after her—and here she’s in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end, see yonder....” The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone mentioned the police station.... Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted.

“No, that’s loathsome... water... it’s not good enough,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing will come of it,” he added, “no use to wait. What about the police office...? And why isn’t Zametov at the police office? The police office is open till ten o’clock....” He turned his back to the railing and looked about him. “Very well then!” he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out “to make an end of it all.” Complete apathy had succeeded to it.

“Well, it’s a way out of it,” he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. “Anyway I’ll make an end, for I want to.... But is it a way out? What does it matter! There’ll be the square yard of space—ha! But what an

end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah... damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don’t care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into one’s head.

” To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a minute’s thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of the house. He had not passed it, he had not been near it since that evening. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey.

The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He stopped at each landing and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. “That wasn’t so then,” he thought. Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. “It’s shut up and the door newly painted. So it’s to let.” Then the third storey and the fourth.